My Ya Yas

Names for one's lady garden? 'Lady's promise'(sounds like a type of chocolate box that men swim through sharks and scale mountains to reach)... 'Fan Anne' (sounds like the name of a flight company "Fasten your seatbelts ladeez and welcome to Fan Anne. We will be travelling today at a constant speed arriving at our destination at 9pm"). 'Foof'... 'Hairy Clam'... and it went on. 4 of us old schoolmates, beers in hand in some bustling Vietnamese restaurant on the wrong side of the tracks in Newcastle. 10pm on a Saturday night. We haven't caught up in a while but no matter - our historys are long our memories short. I've known these 3 since early teenage days and they are easy company; Hannah's Mother calls us her 'Ya Yas' (from the Ya Ya Sisterhood book) - we have seen each other through first periods, failed romances, bad boyfriends, parental angst, marriage, birth and sadly death. Things don't need to be said, we just know where we are with each other. Time and distance may have curtailed our meet ups but only enhance the sacred time we do get together.

We had ditched our kids and other halves and had headed north (for Emma - south) and pitched up at Hannah's house with bottles and nibbles and the giddy excitement of having no responsibilities for a whole 24 hours. Within five minutes the fizz was out. Then cocktails, gin, beers and a mad dash for a taxi. A martini to keep us watered and then on to the noisy meal. Two men actually turned their chairs round to eavesdrop on our X rated chat: Caroline grilling me about any lesbian activities of my giddy youth; insisting she knew more about my (alleged) sapphic past than I did. naming our bits. Remembering losing our big Vs to unsuitables. Etc. We gossiped, cajoled and hooted. 'Are you happy?' Caroline asked whilst she could still remember the answers. It was the only Oprah moment. There were no rows, no tears. No old wounds opened. A quiet one for us lot.

We headed for a nitecap. The bar opened onto a terrace with huge sails above our heads as a kind of overhead cover, with plants creeping up the outdoor open brick, fairylights twinking overhead. The rain came down and we all moved slightly to avoid getting wet. Caroline, slightly worse for wear - complained to barman and we scratched our heads as to why. Turns out she though the indoor air conditioning system was dripping on her - but we were OUTDOORS. Cue much laughter and me feeling smug that for once I wasn't the butt of the joke.

Home to tea, chocolate pavlova and recorded X factor. Yes - we are just crazee. It was 11:30. I rang husband who laughed at our 'wild' night out (as I had billed it). No matter that we hadn't danced til dawn and flirted with jailbait - we had had a great time.

I lay in - bliss. Three of us cooked a huge fry up and ooh and ahhed over facebook photos that were less than kind to old schoolmates (the girls you see 'haven't the time' for Facebook but gobbled up the info that one can find there - their husbands have joined so they read through osmosis). Caroline was missing from the table. Emma sympathised (briefly) as for once it was not she who was propping up the toilet in a well of regret.

We disbanded shortly after lunch. Caroline still curled up in a ball on Hannah's bed - unable to move or even speak. Thank god one of us were sick - otherwise it 'aint a proper night out eh?

I arrived home to husband's waiting arms and a black eyed sproglet. They claimed to have missed me. Me - I was having too good a time to miss anyone. Love ya Ladeez - when is the next meet?

Thank you sweet Jesus!

Oh my god - a lie in!!! Drinking gin and tonics (huge measures - bless those Europeans and their free pouring) at midday, lying on the boardwalk watching fish swimming in the clear waters beneath, remembering why I love my boy so much, eating 3* Michelin food as the sun sets across the sea... oh my, mini breaks are fabulous!!!!

I forgot what 'we' were like. Minus the stress of bills, moving house, jobs and all the responsibility that children bring. Who were 'we' without all the baggage? We were/are people who wake up and still kiss before we brush our teeth. People who wander hand in hand and chat, never bored. People who relish great food and even greater wine. Who get excited by bizarre dishes brought forth from a chance booking at a dream restaurant. Who still enjoy time together, in silence, devouring papers and books, occasionally giving each other happy smiles and arm strokes. I relished every moment with husband. Not as a Father or boss or all the day to day things he is - but as my boy, my best friend, the person I most enjoy hanging out with.

Oh it was bliss. San Sebastian in festival week - fireworks soaring into the sky, children running from big headed puppets, music blasting from every available stage or step and cook offs releasing mouth watering flavours in every square. We met a fantastic couple from Chicago on our last night and drank with them under the stars until 2am. By then the buzzing streets had cleared, the warm night air had cooled. We strolled back to our hotel, mellowed by liquor, warmed by laughter and in need of sleep. Up at 7am we ran for the bus to the airport. As it wound through the lush green hills and drove through the hazy morning cloud, husband slept, head on my knee. And I... well I wished we were still there. In our own bubble.

PS I missed sproglet massively - to the point I viewed his pics on the digital camera every day... and yes he was our every third conversation... But we still managed to have fun!

What is the point of men - bar Peter the nice boy at work?

Excuse my mood. It matches the weather. But with a bit more bite - if I had my way there would be thunder and some damn crackly lightening in there too. You know those days - washouts. A bit bleruurgghhh. I had one on Sunday as well. Keener than mustard I was about the Innocent fete at Regents Park - but as we arrived for a day of Pimms, sunshine, frivolity and a spot of Maypole dancing, the heavens opened. I was a drowned rat struggling to eat a £7 (!!!!!) burrito while my nose dripped water like a fountain. Sproglet slumbered underneath a plastic cover and I knew when he awoke he would want to run around and eat anything that didn't move. Sadly open toed shoes don't really go with muddy parks and teeming rain. Cue our exit from the most middle class of events. My mates stayed to savour the beer tent replete with bales of hay and jovial music but crummy mummies have to quit while they're ahead and find drier pastures.

Anyway I digress. I came home today to stacks of washed clothes, piles of clothes washing to be done, a full dish washer and breakfast dishes. Joy. Just what I fancy after a day at work. Oh - and a letter detailing the 3 points on my licence and a £60fine. My second lot in as many months. 6 points and £120 later....Yay! Dashing to pick up sproglet every day after work is playing havoc with my finances. But hey that's cool. I am a woman - ergo a juggler. But men - what are they there for exactly??? Nothing a turkey baster and a DIY manual couldn't fix. An article at the weekend stated that there has been a 40% increase in males seeking counselling for impotence problems and last month a medical study published proved the quality of men's sperm declines at 45 - to such an extent that the chances of their partner suffering a miscarriage doubles. (Ahh at last - the chorus of men bleating about their ticking biological clocks seems imminent - and gone will be the jokes about women over 30 settling for anything that shaves once a week with a pulse). Sales of beauty products for men have leapt 30% over the last decade and more men than ever are opting for plastic surgery. What have we here? A bunch of narcissistic empty-sacked egotistical mirror lickers?

What do men do exactly? Us women - well I could go all hippy dippy and talk of how we bleed and don't die,(on that subject I once knew a woman who made cards for her boyfriend decorated in period blood... ewwwwwwww) how we birth bairns and then be all things to all people for the rest of our lives, but that is just dull. Now-a-days us chicks can buy our own drinks, flats, shoes and sofas - we can jump up a career ladder without having to wear stockings and type proficiently and most of all we can grab a sperm doner or a rampant rabbit to fulfill all things male. Frankly if a man can't change a tyre or wire a chandelier for you - then why bother?

I tell you I am sick of stroking the biggest male member of all - (sadly) the ego. Boys can you not just do it for yourselves? Well the joke is on you after all - we can bat our lashes, put on a sickly sweet understanding voice and boom! you are putty in our hands. Don't get me wrong I believe sistahhhs should be doin' it for themselves and all - its just... aren't those testosterone filled man-childs so easy to play? It almost isn't sport. No wonder Li-Lo turned. Bimboy Callum Best or the talented Sam Ronson... no contest.

No - I am not about to eat from the hairy cup - I just had a crappy day and needed to vent. Husband being incapable of doing one whole job in the laborious house move -that of post redirection. 8 weeks later our post still goes to the old flat. Plus he booked our dirty weekend flights with a stopover. A stopover to Spain?? You gotta be kidding me! So I am venting about men, apart from Peter the nice boy from work who is our tea bitch and never complains. But I wonder if he uses moisturiser?

The new drink and dial...

Facebook after a few. Suddenly is seems rude not to look up that old ex of yours and see exactly what he is up to, or rather - who he is up to. Flip through friends of friends and wind up oohing and ahhing over a complete stranger's holiday snaps that are mainly of a rosy couple drinking merrily and becoming all the more rosy. Yet, after a bottle of vino they are positively fascinating!

Oh - did you know that so and so knew so and so that you used to work with/date/be mates with/went to school with/once met at a party... possibly? Does anyone have any famous mates on there (who always hide their mates and homepage - boo! Spoilsports).

So I asked to be mates with my ex (lost my virginity to boy) - LMVT as he shall be known - which really galled me to begin with - it feels so damn sad ASKING can you be mates. Almost as horrific as waiting in line to be picked for sports teams at school. The fucker only rejected me!!! I thought he was just taking his sweet arsed time but a workmate helpfully explained how it all works - and no, he wasn't too busy to look at his facebook page, he just blatantly rejected me. Last time me and LMVT spoke - about 9 years ago - we were still mates as far as I remember... maybe now 'cos he is with some skinny dwarf that used to go to school with us and had a ridiculous crush on LMVT while he was my beau, he isn't allowed to be my innocent facebook friend. Good luck to them - I wish this boney pre-pubescent girl would realise - he doesn't do it for me anymore! I just wondered how he was - y'know, curiosity. I am not hoping dig my bitten claws into his skinny frame (they must almost break bones when they do the dirty together) - it was just sheer unadulterated nosiness.

Cut to last night after a fine bottle of wine - I ended up asking LMVT's old best school friend to be my mate. Yes I have no shame... I had a crush on him for 4 years - he didn't wash his hair, wore converse before they were trendy, was brilliant at art and his Dad lived in London - well St Albans - all of which seemed wildly glamorous to a hick from Belfast like me. I awoke today groaning inwardly but cheered up considerably when I found he has accepted me (why does that give me such a small thrill? I need to get out more, I know, I know) and even sent me a mildly amused cheery greeting. Phew - embarrassment curtailed. Have a learned my lesson? Maybe next time I won't be so lucky. So from now on... a few drinks in - my laptop stays shut and my dignity intact.

Cheers!

Corner turned/ fab friends

So I threw in my towel and husband picked it up and said 'I get it'. Finally!!!!He came home in the dead of night and curled in next to me and kissed my sleepy cheek and said 'nothing is more important than us, our family.' I kinda mumbled something and went back to sleep. I think a corner has been turned. Husband has woken out of a slumber and realised we can't go on like this - he is hoping for weekends off and two nights a week. We need to see each other to actually be in a relationship, nay, a marriage. If I start bitching about not having any time to myself and how I used to hog the remote quite happily - slap me.

So today I woke with a spring in my step. Rome wasn't built in a day - but something will change and we can start being an us. The irony is not that I wanted to leave my husband - I wanted time WITH him. The lack of it was driving a huge wedge between us filled with resentment and rows and frustration. A heady cocktail that was watering down anything good between us. It aint easy - but I think things will get better. I can't wait to eat dinner with him, food shop with him, all the glorious mundane details of life that I have had to forgo. I have missed him. He is my best friend (in a non girlie way obviously) and I have craved some quality Thai (hellloooo Busaba) and a movie with him. Hanging out, shooting the breeze, reading the papers - has all vanished in our responsible roles both at work and as parents. And hurray for our (dirty? can you still have one of those 7 years into a relationship?) weekend away in 3 weeks - viva Espania!

Today I hung out with my old school friends. I never see them as much as I wish I could. They make me laugh in an easy way that is borne out of friendships spanning decades. We have added spouses and partners to the group who must have felt like a tonne of bricks hit them when the force of us on mass descended upon them for the first time - but now we have all been round the block together (several times) and I don't see who I made daisy chains with at the tender age of 6 - I just see us all as one big ever expanding gang. We snatched conversations between feeding, wiping and carrying our sproglets - my sproglet decided he could fly and did a dare-devil jump from a 5 foot something climbing frame - bashing his barnet on the way down. He has his own little egg protruding from his forehead - a badge of bravery or stupidity - not sure which. Anyway, the (not the warmest of) days flew by - and I felt like I hadn't really caught up with them all. We save the deeper stuff for smaller one to ones - group chat involves piss taking and the odd quip about life. Then again I could have all the time in the world with them and it wouldn't be enough. One of them once said 'We made each other who we are today.' A bit trite but also true. They know me. I don't have to pretend it is all rosy in my garden. They offer beds to stay in, shoulders to cry on, wine to drink. Unconditional friendship. Support without question. They are probably one of the things that I am most proud of in my life. That no matter what happens - with houses, work and all that jazz - I still have a circle that love me for me. Or at least they do a damn fine job of pretending - feckers!

Gawd bless 'em all. Good night x

Its not about the fork.

When do you throw the towel in? When do you say 'enough'? When do you cut the cord and think - I am unhappy more than I am happy - it is time to move on. You see that husband has turned his fork the wrong way round. It gleams and winks at you on the empty plate and you look at it - you can't take your fucking eyes off it and you ask him to turn it the right way - he has finished eating, table manners dictates this. You want to tear him apart. You feel rage pulsate in your head and start to crawl down your arms towards your fingers and down to your toes. You feel prickly heat behind your ears.It isn't really about his social eating skills - it isn't anything to do with the sad little fork next to the grubby knife. It is all your months of frustration and hurt, all that anger that has drip drip dripped and collected to form an almighty dam that is just about to burst.

Marriage is work. I know that. But this hard? When the tears fall more days than they don't. When you start noticing how other couples behave and you think - we don't do that? When you speak to each other like you are dirt on the ground and it has become so normal to be this way that you don't raise an eyebrow. When you go to a lonely bed every night of the week. When you miss someone desiring you. When you love a child but have forgotten to love each other. When his career means more than time together. When you feel like you are holding it all together with the skin of your teeth and at any moment you could just drop that basket and bceome a basket-case. When you resent everything they do and even more everything they don't. When you eye wanders. When the loneliness eats at you at night and your stomach churns. When you remember the person you once were and you miss her. When you have gone round so many times in the same circles that you feel like a fish in a bowl. When you stop laughing.

Is that when you throw in the towel?

Other fucking Mothers

God I hate other Mothers!! Sorry, I should rephrase that. I hate other mothers in my area. Other Mothers scare me with their organic pies and fresh pressed linin trousers and their boden dressed offspring. But some can be friendly at least. The day before I left West Hampstead (sob - still missing it) I was in Starbucks working and I met a group of 3 brilliant women. All Mothers - one also a nanny - and they were such a laugh. The type who didn't do bath night every night, liked a bottle of vino or two and hated happy clappy keeping-up-with-the Jones's mother and baby classes. I wished with all my heart I had met them during my 16 months of part time freelance work and full time Mother stress.

So I move to a fairly affluent area - us like the pikeys who have invaded their sweet smelling town - plonk sproglet at a new nursery and sit back and wait to meet some yummy down-to-earth mummies... But all I meet are uptight cold bitches who look down on me and my chipped toenails (no manicure - how can she step out of the house??) my son's un-ironed tops and my tiny green car (bought from my lovely Auntie). I met one today - tried a bit of the old chat 'Hello... our boys started on the same day,' kinda small talk. What did this scrawny bird like witch do? Practically blanked me - looked mighty uncomfortable - squeezed out a few words as if she was trying not to breathe me in - before dashing to the rarified air and safety of her BMW and flew out of there.

My blood boiled. I don't CARE about fancy cars and banker wanker husbands and buying only from Waitrose and being stepford all the fucking time! I am a real woman, a Mother who gets it wrong and likes a Pimms and LOVES working (straight to hell for that one I am sure)and doesn't iron and never will!!!!

I was so desperate to move. I am so happy with the house. But will I stay here? If today's experience is to become the norm - then NO! I was avoided more than a leper. Stuck up snobs are up there in my most loathed group. You have money - so that makes you better? Yes, I like nice handbags, because they smell of leather and wear well. Yes, I like great cocktails and wish I could afford Manolo Blahnik shoes - but I don't need status symbols to declare my worth to the world.

God I miss the dirt of London.